Urging his steed along Oxford Road,— as that great approach to the metropolis was then termed,—he soon passed Marylebone Lane, beyond which, with the exception of a few scattered houses, the country was completely open on the right, and laid out in pleasant fields and gardens; nor did he draw in the rein until he arrived at Tyburn-gate, where, before he turned off upon the Edgeware Road, he halted for a moment, to glance at the place of execution. From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be no less interesting because he was unsuccessful. He thought, too, of the fretful invalid who lay in the next room to his, whose money had created his business and made his position in the world. “Hotel Ritz,” he said mechanically to the coachman. They're apt to be surly to strangers, but it soon wears off. But it don't much matter—though he's a devilish shrewd fellow, and might have helped me out of a difficulty, had any occurred. " "Pshaw!" cried Thames. .
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